


Bittersweet

by notyourdarling



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Memories, Family, Family Dynamics, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Redemption, Shimada Brothers, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 17:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9502793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourdarling/pseuds/notyourdarling
Summary: Hanzo breathes deeply, savoring the chill in the air as he peruses the storefronts. Night has finally fallen. The skydome is translucent for the most part, but it still leaves an ethereal film across the stars. The thousands of tiny lights suspended far above and the warm candlelit lanterns interspersed throughout the bazaar compensate for any dullness, gilding the city with golden light. The unexpected brightness disorients Hanzo as he paces the streets, careful not to linger too long or draw attention to himself. He’s contemplating retreating to his dark, quiet room when it happens.A simple display in the window of a bakery catches his eye.[After his encounter with Genji, Hanzo reflects on their past and finally allows himself to contemplate the future.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Promptwatch's first prompt, "Traditions," and is an entire month late. It ties into the official holiday comic, "Reflections," and also features a bit of backstory and worldbuilding.

Hanzo remembers his mother fondly, in the rare moments he allows himself to think of her. It is impossible to forget her face—although he deserves to—when he bears such a striking resemblance to her. He glimpses fragments of her in his own reflection sometimes, in the arch of his high cheekbones or the solemn curve of his full lips. His dark, unfathomable eyes belong entirely to his father.

His mother had been a fierce, proud woman—she’d had no other choice. Weakness and hesitation often proved lethal in the unforgiving life they had once shared. His mother had been an excellent liar. She had played her part beautifully: a cold and regal presence at her husband’s side, untouchable in her blood-red lipstick and silk _kimono_. As a child, Hanzo had almost feared approaching her.

It had been different when they were alone. She had been gentler, indulgent even. She would draw Hanzo into her lap and press soft, sugary kisses to his brow as they nibbled on _daifuku_ together, basking in the lazy afternoon sunlight. She would walk hand-in-hand with him through the labyrinthine gardens of their estate, helping him pluck a few vibrant chrysanthemums and smiling as he clumsily plaited them into her long hair. She would tug the covers up past his chin when she tucked him in at night, kneeling beside his futon and weaving breathtaking stories about princes and dragons until he drifted off to sleep.

After Genji’s birth, Hanzo had stared with childlike wonder at the swaddled babe, fascinated by his rosy face and wild tufts of hair. His mother had laughed and placed the squirming bundle into his arms, cradling them both close and whispering for Hanzo to be kind to his new little brother. Genji had quieted then, gazing up at Hanzo with luminous eyes. Intrigued, Hanzo had reached a finger out to stroke the babe’s cheek, inadvertently startling him. Genji had begun howling soon thereafter. Hanzo had wrinkled his nose and promptly handed Genji back to his mother before jamming his tiny hands over his ears and scurrying away.

The following years had passed in much the same way, with Hanzo at turns delighted and displeased by his younger brother. Genji had taken to toddling after him as soon as he was able to walk, clinging to the pleats of Hanzo’s _hakama_ and babbling nonsense. “Ni, ni, _niiiii_!” He would cry, wriggling in place and pouting until Hanzo acknowledged him.

Genji’s antics had amused their mother. “My little sparrow,” she’d teased, “forever chirping for his brother.”

The old memory strikes Hanzo hard. He grimaces and clenches his hands into tight fists, striving to ignore the overwhelming pangs of guilt and regret clawing at the never-healed wound over his heart. Since renouncing his family and condemning himself to the half- life of a traitor, Hanzo has been careful not to dwell on what he’s lost, careful not to drown in bitterness. Killing Genji had brought him to his knees. A decade of atonement had been but a drop in the ocean needed to soothe his grief.

Hanzo’s dragons writhe restlessly beneath his skin, sensing his unease. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and holds it as he tips his head back to the sky. Delicate snowflakes settle upon his eyelashes. A pure, white cloud rises slowly from his lips as he exhales. _Genji is alive,_ Hanzo reminds himself. _I did not kill my brother._

Even now, the truth feels strange, fragile. How many times had he wished for such a thing? And to have that wish fulfilled… It leaves Hanzo at a loss for words, unsure of how to proceed.

He’s thankful for the cold; it steadies him as he wanders the bustling streets of Oasis. Hanzo watches with a sense of detachment as the crowd around him—an eclectic mix of humans and omnics from every corner of the globe—thrums with excitement. It’s Christmas Eve tonight, and the city is splendorous to behold.

Tiny bells chime sweetly in the breeze, secured with ribbons of lustrous silver fabric to the crystalline lattices framing the _bazaar_. Strands of lights threaded between the sleek skyscrapers form a gossamer web that blankets the night sky, filling it with unfamiliar stars. Brilliant holograms clutter the cheerful storefronts, wishing passersby a joyful holiday season or beckoning them closer. The air is fragrant, rich and heady with the scent of exotic spices and mulled wine.

Far above it all, snow drifts down to earth. The climate of the Arabian utopia is completely synthetic and closely regulated by its founding scientists. Its seasons are mild imitations of the weather elsewhere, although the metropolis’ temperature dips significantly at night, as is typical of desert regions. The city is eternally bathed in warm, golden sunlight, interrupted occasionally by artificial clouds or rain. Only a few exceptions are made.

Oasis is programmed to snow on precisely two days of the year—Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Hanzo had not deliberately planned to arrive during the haven’s first snowfall, but the coincidence pleases him. Winter has always been his favorite season. He admires its harsh beauty and enjoys the faint caress of snow against his bare skin. This time of year inevitably evokes fond memories from his youth.

Their family had upheld most of the old wintertime traditions, one of which was partaking in a Christmas cake. His mother had insisted upon baking it herself. Every year—much to the continued delight of her children—she had presented their family with a flawless vanilla sponge cake, decorated with elegant twists of whipped cream and garnished with glistening strawberry slices. The cake itself had been delectable, light and airy, with yet more fresh strawberries and whipped cream layered thick in its center. Christmas Eve had been the only night of the year that Genji ate his vegetables without any complaints, eager for a slice of Christmas cake after dinner.

Throughout his childhood, Hanzo had watched from a distance as his mother prepared the cake. He was usually tasked with keeping Genji preoccupied while she worked, a duty which he performed with varying degrees of success. Hanzo had been an imaginative child, eager to please, content to sit and daydream or amuse himself with books. Genji, however, had longed for adventure. He was forever wandering the estate, hunting for secret passageways or pretending to be a ninja—albeit one who liked to tackle things. The two brothers had struggled to connect, boring or annoying each other into squabbling until their mother intervened.

Eventually, Hanzo had discovered that the best way to entertain Genji was to create an entirely new world for him to explore. Hanzo would settle his brother down in a quiet corner, push a steaming mug of _sencha_ into his hands, and begin to tell a story. Hanzo would start with a grandiose idea, drawing upon his mother’s tales and imitating the melodic cadence of her voice to charm Genji into stillness. This only lasted for so long. Soon, Genji would chime in with whimsical details or questions about the story, prompting increasingly creative responses from Hanzo, which only perpetuated the cycle.

Their mother had loved to listen to their stories. Hanzo had saved his most fanciful ideas for when she baked their Christmas cake, for it was one of the few times that their mother was able to escape her duties. Before beginning, she would dismiss the kitchen servants and any _kyoudai_ accompanying her with a firm command to not return unless called upon. Once they had bowed and left, his mother could stop being the cruel, enigmatic wife of Shimada Yoichi _-sama_ and start being herself. She could react openly as their stories unfolded, laughing herself to tears while whisking the eggs or leaving streaks of flour behind when she ruffled her sons’ hair.

Hanzo had been eight years old the first time he was allowed to assist his mother with the Christmas cake. Barely able to contain his excitement, he had held perfectly still as she braided his hair back from his face. He hadn’t protested when she folded her frilly apron around him. He hadn’t even scolded Genji for immediately mussing his hair. His mother had tied a similar apron around Genji before stepping back to chuckle and admire her work, pronouncing them both very handsome.

The three of them had spent the afternoon baking in the kitchen. It had taken far longer than usual to pull the cake together—between Genji dropping the eggs and Hanzo splattering the batter everywhere by stirring too vigorously—but his mother had smiled fondly throughout the process. After sliding the cake pans into the oven, their mother had knelt down to hug her flour-dusted sons, laughing and pressing kisses to their cheeks.

They had all shuffled out onto the _engawa_ overlooking Hanamura to wait, bundled up in oversized scarves and clutching savory pastries and mugs of hot tea. Curled into his mother’s side, Hanzo had gazed out across the city, breathing in the crisp winter air and taking in the familiar sight of his home. Hanamura was an unusual blend of tradition and modernity, with the old-fashioned structures surrounding the Shimada estate eventually giving way to glossy skyscrapers on the horizon. Mount Fuji loomed in the distance, gray and hazy, veiled by fog and gentle snowfall. In the spring, the mountain seemed godlike, rising stark above the sea of pale pink blossoms that engulfed the rest of Hanamura.

“This will all be yours, someday,” his mother had murmured to Hanzo, startling him out of his thoughts as she squeezed his shoulder. The ding of the oven had drawn the three of them back inside to the cake, which had yet to be frosted and decorated.

That night, as their mother set the Christmas cake at the head of the table with a proud flourish, their father’s lips had twitched in amusement. “ _Arigato,_ Katsumi,” he’d thanked her nonetheless, earning a smile from his wife and a sigh of relief from both sons, who had feared that their imperfect creation would disappoint him.

The cake had been quite ugly, noticeably lopsided with tiny crumbs peppered throughout its extremely dense coating of whipped cream. Their mother had given her sons complete control over its decoration. Gone were the delicate strawberry slices and graceful twists of whipped cream spiraling toward the cake’s center. Instead, the cake had been covered in some shaky coils and squiggles of cream, with misshapen pieces of fruit stuck haphazardly across its surface. The sides had been covered entirely with strawberries, at Hanzo’s insistence. He’d been hoping to conceal the gouges he and Genji had made in the cake while frosting it, but the hasty repair had lacked sophistication.

But his mother had closed her eyes and hummed appreciatively when she bit into her piece of cake. “Perfect,” she’d proclaimed, and that was all that mattered.

Three weeks ago, such remembrances would have been bittersweet, tainted by grief. Now… Hanzo does not know how to feel about them. Eighteen days ago, he’d confronted a ghost—his brother, or what was left of him. Genji’s cybernetic enhancements had rendered him unrecognizable at first. The metallic planes of his body had gleamed in the fractured moonlight, an unearthly green glow emanating from the shadows he lurked within. That same green light had roared to life around him when he called forth a single, perfectly recognizable dragon.

To assuage the last of Hanzo’s doubts, Genji had exposed a sliver of his marred face. His dark eyes had struck Hanzo more surely than any weapon, paralyzing him with shame and horror. “I have accepted what I am,” Genji had declared, though Hanzo knew not how this could be possible, “and I have forgiven you. Now you must forgive yourself.”

Haunted by his brother’s words and the echo of steel at his throat, Hanzo had still knelt before Genji’s memorial to pay his respects. He hadn’t known what else to do. The familiar ritual had failed to provide a sense of clarity to the chaos slowly overtaking his mind. Uncertainty and despair had descended upon him as he lingered in the desolate estate which had once been his home.

Hanzo had fled Hanamura that very night with too many thoughts in his head and a dull roar in his ears that had gradually faded to total silence. He’d crossed the continent at a breakneck pace. Transnational hypertrains and crowded spaceports had blurred together into an indistinguishable haze of faces and sounds after two weeks on the move. Hanzo hadn’t looked back.

Everywhere he’d landed had felt wrong. Hanzo had rarely spent more than a day in one place, too consumed by the desire to be elsewhere, anywhere but _here_. _Here_ was where sleep eluded him, where his thoughts reeled with futile _what-ifs_ , where his dragons coiled uneasily beneath his too-tight skin, their presence almost painfully electric. Something not unlike fear had settled deep inside him, had crept up and left a heavy, metallic taste in the back of his throat. Whenever the feeling had become too suffocating to bear, Hanzo drank and drank and drank until he forgot why.

The _sake_ had done more harm than good. His drunken apathy had faded once the mellow alcohol had lulled him into a feverish slumber. More often than not, he had been dragged straight into a nightmarish reenactment of Genji’s murder, from which he would wake with a strangled shout, sweating and shivering, his tattoo rippling with brilliant blue light. Hanzo had never been able to forget the sensation of his brother’s blood splattering hot across his face as he delivered the killing blow.

Hanzo had left many things behind when he abandoned his family, but his sword is one thing he never regrets forsaking. He’ll never escape its memory, anyway. No matter how much _sake_ Hanzo drinks, the image of his sword’s freshly chipped blade—drenched red, slowly dripping blood—remains seared into him.

At some point, Hanzo had decided that enough was enough. He’d scraped together the meagre funds he’d amassed as a vagrant mercenary and bought a hovercycle in Cairo. Hanzo had learned how to ride the anachronistic machines in his youth—precisely because he had been ordered to avoid them—and hovercycling had since become a guilty pleasure. His love of hovercycles had endured through many unkind years, unlike his short-lived teenage rebellion.

Hanzo has always loved the effortlessness of hovercycling. He loves the sensation of soaring across the earth, smooth as sin, of controlling the bike with the cant of his thighs or slightest flick of his wrists. He loves the violence of the wind tearing at his clothes and hair, the rumble of the engine sinking into his bones. Best of all is the way his mind goes blissfully quiet as he presses his body flush against the machine, leaning in and pushing past its limits.

Hanzo had begun to crave freedom from his own thoughts more than anything. Simply imagining gliding across miles and miles of golden sand on a hovercycle—alone save for the beating desert sun and shimmering horizon—had been a relief. The last few weeks had been filled with the inescapable, unrelenting press of strangers as he stole from city to city, all too aware of the exorbitant price on his head. The temptation of solitude had proved irresistible.

But in his eagerness, Hanzo had been reckless. He’d overlooked a security camera and had gotten caught on grainy surveillance footage en route to purchasing the hovercycle. Rudimentary facial recognition software had been enough to tip off the local cutthroats, who immediately took an interest in his bounty.

Hanzo had been forced to switch from his distinctive, traditional Japanese attire to less recognizable civilian clothes. He’d picked up a dusky hovercycle jacket and a few sets of casual clothing from the nearest secondhand store. The clothes had been militaristic and old-fashioned, with a silhouette reminiscent of fatigues, but they were constructed from a flexible, dark fabric that was both subtle and sturdy. That was all Hanzo had cared about.

Wary of engaging assailants out in the open terrain of the desert and hoping to elude any potential pursuers, Hanzo had decided to alter the rest of his appearance as well. He’d tried not to overthink it as he stood before a dingy motel mirror with a straight razor unfurled in the palm of his hand. He had bitten his lip as he set to work, hacking off large hanks of hair before shaving the sides of his head entirely. He’d been careful as he traced the contours of his skull with the blade, his hands steady and eyes sharp, but he’d still nicked himself once or twice. He had left the top portion of his hair untouched, still long enough to tie back or cascade down to his collarbones when loose.

Afterwards, with strands of silky black hair scattered across his shoulders and the bathroom floor, Hanzo had paused to inspect himself in the mirror. A stranger had gazed back at him. A stranger with his mother’s pensive frown—and his father’s judgmental gaze. He had flinched at the sight before sighing and closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Once he had calmed, Hanzo had reexamined his handiwork with an objective eye, trying to view himself as a bounty hunter would. The undercut had accentuated the harsh angle of his cheekbones and the sharp curve of his bearded jaw. Without the graying strands of hair at his temples, Hanzo had looked half a decade younger, the closest he’d appeared to his true age since assuming the responsibilities of heirship twenty years ago. While contemplating his past, Hanzo had realized that the undercut was eerily reminiscent of the wild hairstyles Genji’s wayward friends had borne.

Hanzo had scowled fiercely at the epiphany, faintly embarrassed that he hadn’t made the connection beforehand. Glaring at his reflection, Hanzo had chided himself. “You are too old for this ridiculous hairstyle. It does not suit you.” He had let the words hang in the air for a moment, just long enough for their bite to fade. Then he’d scoffed, ventured back into the city, and gotten the bridge of his nose pierced. Hanzo had never lacked commitment—and he hadn’t been about to falter now.

His lips had curled into a pleased smirk that night as he studied his reflection. His father would have hated the piercing. Something small and vicious within Hanzo had snarled in satisfaction at the thought.

His defiance—sparked by the resurrection of decades-old fury and hurt and resentment—had been prolonged by a rush of adrenaline from shooting his way out of Cairo. Days of gliding through the silent red desert on his hovercycle had soothed his temper but scorched his skin. By the time he had ridden into Oasis, Hanzo had been dehydrated and sunburnt and more than ready for a reprieve from his sand-encrusted clothes. But it was the most alive he’d felt in ages.   

Hanzo had stepped into the first inconspicuous hotel that had caught his eye. His room had been modest, utilitarian except for an ornate _mashrabiya_ overlooking the glittering marketplace. His bed had felt heavenly, and he’d fallen asleep fully clothed, curled up in slanting rays of sunlight, drifting off to the sound of faraway mirth. After a solid fifteen hours of uninterrupted sleep, Hanzo had awoken to find the city mantled in snow, with perfect little snowflakes drifting down from the pearlescent skydome.

 He had spent the rest of the evening wandering the streets of Oasis, half-smiling, admiring its vivacious atmosphere and resplendent architecture. He’s surprised to discover that a place full of rational scientists and equable diplomats so devoted to the future would acknowledge an archaic holiday, let alone celebrate it with such enthusiasm. Hanzo’s feet carry him from the innermost _bazaar_ through tiered gardens overflowing with jewel-toned blossoms and starry-eyed tourists. He walks alongside the edges of dangerously exposed hyperways until he reaches the thundering waterfalls encircling the Ministries’ headquarters. Even the roar of water crashing down into the reservoir hundreds of feet below fails to completely drown out the noise suffusing the city.

Everywhere he goes, humans and omnics fill the air with idle chatter and laughter. Hunger drives Hanzo back towards the marketplace, where he purchases a straightforward dinner from a secluded stall. The beef _kebabs_ are hearty, the meat succulent and marinated in intense, savory Iraqi spices. He chases the flavor with a cup of sweet _chai_ before stepping back into the crowd.

Hanzo breathes deeply, savoring the chill in the air as he peruses the storefronts. Night has finally fallen. The skydome is translucent for the most part, but it still leaves an ethereal film across the stars. The thousands of tiny lights suspended far above and the warm candlelit lanterns interspersed throughout the _bazaar_ compensate for any dullness, gilding the city with golden light. The unexpected brightness disorients Hanzo as he paces the streets, careful not to linger too long or draw attention to himself. He’s contemplating retreating to his dark, quiet room when it happens.

A simple display in the window of a bakery catches his eye. Several cakes rest behind a thin pane of glass, arranged in a neat line across a wooden counter. Hanzo ignores the elaborately decorated cakes at the center of the shelf in favor of a pure white cake off to the left. A generous slab of dark chocolate huddles atop the cake, encircled by plump strawberries and delicate arcs of whipped cream. Additional strawberries frame the cake’s base, beside which sits a small handwritten card with two lines of text. The first line is written in impeccable Arabic script, and the second is a translation in wobbly English letters, labeling the cake “Vanilla Sponge with Strawberries, Won’t Break Diet!”

The last line startles a laugh out of Hanzo. Christmas cakes had always seemed luxurious and indulgent to him as a child. He hasn't had a proper one in years, not since... Not since his mother’s death. His father had forbidden them to continue the tradition in her absence. Hanzo had been twenty-three, old enough to respect his father's wishes and prioritize them over his own desires. Genji, twenty years old and still as rebellious as ever, had been far less accepting.

He had cornered Hanzo one evening, seizing him by the collar and pressing him into a corner with shaking hands. Hanzo had simply stared at Genji, unresisting. “Is this what _okaa-san_ would have wanted?” Genji had asked, vehement. “For us to haunt the halls of our own home? To live in silence, afraid to speak her name?”

Hanzo had not replied.

“You know the answer, even if you are afraid to speak it.” Genji had insisted, his anger visibly fading into bitter disappointment as his trembling grasp on Hanzo’s _kimono_ weakened.

There had been a subtle note of pleading in his voice, something small and broken, which is what had compelled Hanzo to say, “Bake with me.”

Genji’s head had popped up, his eyes wide with bewilderment. “What?”

“Bake with me,” Hanzo had repeated. “We will honor her in this way.”

It was a sweltering midsummer afternoon—a few days before what would have been their mother’s birthday—but still the two of them had shirked their duties and crept into the kitchen to bake a Christmas cake. Their skills had thankfully improved after years of baking alongside their mother, and they had fallen into a familiar rhythm as they worked. The final result would have made their mother proud.

The cake had been lovely and soft, pure white except for the strawberries perched atop and around the cake—a far cry from Hanzo’s first attempt—which he’d cut into elegant roses. It had tasted sweet, almost cloyingly so, but it had brought a smile to both of their faces. For Hanzo, it had felt like the first in many years.  

Before Hanzo realizes it, he’s stepped into the bakery and purchased the entire cake. He stares dumbly at the brightly-wrapped parcel in his hands for a few moments afterwards before sighing and slowly walking back to his hotel. Hanzo is perplexed by his own actions. Hanzo has always been sentimental, yes, but he has never been delusional. He knows that this one cake will not erase what he has done, nor will it bring back his mother or brother as he remembers them. It is as powerless as he is to alter the passage of time.

Yet he has bought the cake nonetheless. Alone in his hotel room, in an unfamiliar city for the first time, Hanzo allows himself to think of his mother. He remembers her as she was, fierce and true, as cold and beautiful as the moon, so clever but terribly ruthless. He thinks of how she would have grieved to learn of his father’s death. He knows she would have wept to see Hanzo standing over his brother’s lifeless body with tears on his face and blood on his blade.

Hanzo wonders what she would think of him now. If she could still bring herself to love him. He’s not sure if he’s ready to hear the answer.

Hanzo’s first bite of the cake is bittersweet. It tastes like the one he and Genji had made fifteen years ago, too sweet and not-quite-right but _almost_ enough. It tastes like heartache and tentative smiles, like falling apart and coming together, like forgiveness given but not yet accepted. It tastes like home.

Hanzo closes his eyes and allows himself to imagine a future that isn’t defined by his past.

“The world is changing,” Genji had told him, “and it’s time to pick a side.” The choice is simple. In his heart, Hanzo knows what he must do. His sleep that night is dreamless, and he rises early the next morning, refreshed. He departs in silence, leaving behind the unfinished cake and a generous handful of credit chips. He guides his hovercycle to the edge of the city and then beyond, riding northwest in utter darkness until predawn light engulfs the endless horizon in a ring of fire. Hanzo rides quickly and with purpose.

He rides for Gibraltar.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, please know that any comments or critique you take the time to leave are greatly appreciated. Visit my tumblr (elynias.tumblr.com) for updates and drabbles, or just stop by to say hello.


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